Read Online The Sadist's Bible by Nicole Cushing - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicole Cushing
Ads: Link
empty fantasizing.
Ellie imagined a future confrontation: someday, a month or two from now, Lori
would show up again. Lori would message her, flirt with her, maybe even try to start
some cybersex...all as though none of this had ever happened. And Ellie would unload
her anger about having been stood up, and Lori would affect astonishment at the very
notion that Ellie had taken any of this seriously. Would explain that even her insistence it had been real had been part of the fantasy. How dense could she be?
It had been like that, before, online. Three years ago, Ellie had engaged in another
dalliance on the social network – someone who’d told her she was an eighteen year old
girl from Alabama (“...just had my birthday yesterday...”), but who turned out to be a
fifty year old man. He only admitted his deception when she pressed for more contact.
After a flurry of intense cybersex chat sessions, she felt herself falling in love. Asked for a phone number.
She slipped down to the basement, late at night, to make the call. Oh how her heart
pounded when she entered the number in her cell phone! Oh, how disappointed she was
to hear a mincing, gravelly falsetto on the other end. She dry heaved. Started shaking and crying. Then, as quietly as she could, she cussed him out.
She’d let her guard down in those chats. Confessed desires she couldn’t confess
anywhere else. There had been something like intimacy shared. When she called the man
a perv for impersonating a woman online, he dropped the falsetto and called her a perv
back. Said he might like to pretend to be a woman online but that she had a fantasy about sleeping with a “barely legal” girl. “Who’s the bigger perv, sweetheart?” he said in a
Southern, smokers voice. “The way I see it, you’re basically a child molester!” Then he
hung up.
She’d felt like a fool and felt her soul scourged by deep and abiding shame. She’d
asked herself the question, over and over: am I a child molester? She’d come to find out she hadn’t really been talking to a “barely legal” girl, but she’d thought she’d talked to one. She’d fantasized about having sex with her, and the girl’s youth (only one day
removed from seventeen!) was undeniably part of the appeal.
And the transvestite had seemed so damned convincing, online. Had acted so lost, so
hungry for a strong hand to guide her. Maybe Ellie had been attracted to her because she was one of the few people (online or in real life) who seemed more fragile and clueless
than she was. Learning the truth had been a disappointment. And that was something
Ellie had to reckon with, she’d been disappointed she hadn’t had cybersex with a barely
legal girl.
She wondered again now: Am I a child molester?
A voice, scratchy and Southern – the voice of God, or the voice of the transvestite, or
both mixed together – answered her: “Thou art an abomination.”
She had to pee. Before she squatted on the toilet, she looked in the huge mirror over
the sink. She was too pale and too thin. She was glassy-eyed and straw-haired. She didn’t look like a human being. She looked like a cheap, dollar store doll. Not a Barbie, but an imitation Barbie. An inferior knock-off. A copy of a copy.
She washed up and went to dry off on a hand towel. But the maid had “neglected” to
supply her room with towels. Her wet hands dripped over her shirt and jeans as she made
her way to a small utility closet next to the bathroom. Therein, she found an iron, a small ironing board, a coat rack, and hangers. On a shelf over the coat rack, she discovered six towels of various sizes and – to her great surprise – a pack of Marlboro Light 100s and a Bic lighter adorned with the logo of the Cincinnati Reds. Maybe the maid had taken a
smoking break and had forgotten about the Marlboros. Maybe the last occupant had been
trying to quit smoking and placed the pack there as a way to hinder easy access. However
Ellie imagined a future confrontation: someday, a month or two from now, Lori
would show up again. Lori would message her, flirt with her, maybe even try to start
some cybersex...all as though none of this had ever happened. And Ellie would unload
her anger about having been stood up, and Lori would affect astonishment at the very
notion that Ellie had taken any of this seriously. Would explain that even her insistence it had been real had been part of the fantasy. How dense could she be?
It had been like that, before, online. Three years ago, Ellie had engaged in another
dalliance on the social network – someone who’d told her she was an eighteen year old
girl from Alabama (“...just had my birthday yesterday...”), but who turned out to be a
fifty year old man. He only admitted his deception when she pressed for more contact.
After a flurry of intense cybersex chat sessions, she felt herself falling in love. Asked for a phone number.
She slipped down to the basement, late at night, to make the call. Oh how her heart
pounded when she entered the number in her cell phone! Oh, how disappointed she was
to hear a mincing, gravelly falsetto on the other end. She dry heaved. Started shaking and crying. Then, as quietly as she could, she cussed him out.
She’d let her guard down in those chats. Confessed desires she couldn’t confess
anywhere else. There had been something like intimacy shared. When she called the man
a perv for impersonating a woman online, he dropped the falsetto and called her a perv
back. Said he might like to pretend to be a woman online but that she had a fantasy about sleeping with a “barely legal” girl. “Who’s the bigger perv, sweetheart?” he said in a
Southern, smokers voice. “The way I see it, you’re basically a child molester!” Then he
hung up.
She’d felt like a fool and felt her soul scourged by deep and abiding shame. She’d
asked herself the question, over and over: am I a child molester? She’d come to find out she hadn’t really been talking to a “barely legal” girl, but she’d thought she’d talked to one. She’d fantasized about having sex with her, and the girl’s youth (only one day
removed from seventeen!) was undeniably part of the appeal.
And the transvestite had seemed so damned convincing, online. Had acted so lost, so
hungry for a strong hand to guide her. Maybe Ellie had been attracted to her because she was one of the few people (online or in real life) who seemed more fragile and clueless
than she was. Learning the truth had been a disappointment. And that was something
Ellie had to reckon with, she’d been disappointed she hadn’t had cybersex with a barely
legal girl.
She wondered again now: Am I a child molester?
A voice, scratchy and Southern – the voice of God, or the voice of the transvestite, or
both mixed together – answered her: “Thou art an abomination.”
She had to pee. Before she squatted on the toilet, she looked in the huge mirror over
the sink. She was too pale and too thin. She was glassy-eyed and straw-haired. She didn’t look like a human being. She looked like a cheap, dollar store doll. Not a Barbie, but an imitation Barbie. An inferior knock-off. A copy of a copy.
She washed up and went to dry off on a hand towel. But the maid had “neglected” to
supply her room with towels. Her wet hands dripped over her shirt and jeans as she made
her way to a small utility closet next to the bathroom. Therein, she found an iron, a small ironing board, a coat rack, and hangers. On a shelf over the coat rack, she discovered six towels of various sizes and – to her great surprise – a pack of Marlboro Light 100s and a Bic lighter adorned with the logo of the Cincinnati Reds. Maybe the maid had taken a
smoking break and had forgotten about the Marlboros. Maybe the last occupant had been
trying to quit smoking and placed the pack there as a way to hinder easy access. However
Similar Books
